The chance of picking up a random girl at a sports bar on an NFL Sunday is comparable to the odds of being able to slap to death an Olympic weightlifter with a single stalk of asparagus in under three minutes, or of George W. Bush announcing at the presidential podium that, contrary to popular belief, he is in fact an Atlantic pearl oyster.
“My fellow Americans,” the commander in shell would say in his all-too-familiar Texas drawl, “it is true that my home was once the sandy sea bottom. I know this may be startling to many, especially those who never once doubted that I was a Homosapien, as opposed to a bivalve mollusk.
"Allow me to preempt the first burning question on your minds with this answer: Yes, I am most certainly delicious. Personally, I would go best with a horseradish-heavy cocktail sauce.”
So what makes it so ridiculously difficult to pick up a girl while you and your slovenly buddies are guzzling stale beer and watching your favorite teams get hyper-analyzed by commentators such as Dan “Finkle and Einhorn” Marino and John “Aggressive Sodomy” Madden?
There are two crucial factors working against us:
First, the male-female ratio is hideous.
Second, and most importantly, before going to your favorite sports dive next Sunday, take a look at yourself. I’m serious here. Take a look in the mirror. Yeah you, stubby. Take off those awful GI-issue glasses for a second and tighten your belt over your poop-filled gut. While you’re at it, take off that weird winter hat with the furry ear flaps you inexplicably wear all the time. You look like a Russian midget-gypsy in that abomination.
Let’s go, off with that Duran Duran shirt you still wear because you’re convinced of its ironic humor. Just because your ex-girlfriend told you that shirt was hot two years ago doesn’t mean she’s not boning a different gang of skinny Brooklyn hipsters every night and telling them the same banal things about their own self-important shirts.
And for the love of Christ, wipe your right nostril clean: I can clearly see all the blue crumbs in there from last night when you were snorting Adderall and telling your best friend, Elmer Hamburger, your thoughts on Nietzsche.
And now you can see yourself in plain view, you slime ball. You are a male version of Marla Hooch from A League of Their Own. Even John Madden wouldn’t sneak up on you in your sleep and have his way with you.
To clarify, what I mean by "picking up" is skillfully bringing home a girl who has expressed unforced consent. There are definitely boundaries, comrade.
You can’t just pull a "caveman maneuver" and expect all to agree that you defied the crazy odds against male sports bar patrons: you can’t just stroll into a bar with a fur tunic, protruding brow and bone club and, grunting “OOGA” repeatedly, bonk a girl’s head and sling her over your shoulder.
That doesn’t count, unless by “count” you mean “merit life-in-prison without possibility of parole.” Charge: Assault with a deadly weapon while in Cro-Magnon garb. For the police APB, that’s a 476. A 477 is assault with a deadly weapon while impersonating Richard Simmons—a side note, the deadly weapon could be Richard Simmons’s career.
In fairness, a few words should be written on the converse case: how difficult is it for a single female to hook up with a random guy?
Here’s a maxim: if a woman can walk five feet in any direction without finding at least some big-mouthed, overconfident blob who would ditch his friends on a moment’s notice to go home with her, she’s probably at Eunuch Hall. You know, that post-castration dive on Third Avenue? Yeah, you know where I’m talking about, right? It’s that joint with the great mozzarella sticks.
Anyway, back to my point. Wait, what was it again, comrade? Whatever, let’s call up Elmer and see if he wants to watch some football at our favorite place. I’m HIV positive we’ll meet some girls there.